


Bandages

by Betrayedstars



Category: Naruto
Genre: Addiction, Self-Harm, temari is more of a side-character srry, this takes place after the chuunin exams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27990909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Betrayedstars/pseuds/Betrayedstars
Summary: Gaara never wore bandages. He never got injured, and never practiced Taijutsu, so he didn't need to.Though that sliver of white peeking out from under his coat sleeve didn't look like a shirt he'd wear, Kankurou decided, and his curiosity was insatiable, even if it was rumored to have killed the cat.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Bandages

Gaara laid in bed, a kunai knife reflecting a spot of light unto the ceiling. He focused on the small speck, leisurely turning the kunai in circles and making the light dance.

His siblings were fast asleep across the room, his bed being the only one separated from them. Gaara didn't blame them; Shukaku was ruthless in keeping him up at night, and at times he'd wake up screaming as if he'd been stabbed, scaring the poor souls out of his siblings. 

That night, Gaara chose to let them rest well, though his head hammered with sleep deprivation and his vision swayed unfocused. Turning onto his side, he locked eyes with his reflection in the knife, seeing a lost boy staring back at him. He had the same emotionless eyes as his father, a kanji scar reading "LOVE" that contradicted his entire persona, and disheveled hair carelessly tossed by the winds of his village. 

Gaara set his focus on the brow donning his scar. Love. What did that mean to him, now?

He had thought it was something unreachable, something useless, a myth, even. He knew the definition, but not the purpose, much less if it was even an obtainable emotion.

But then, Naruto kicked his ass into next week, all to protect his friends. Even when his arms and legs were useless and his muscles were torn, he still crawled towards him on his shoulders with that _look_. That look of determination. Gaara swore his eyes changed, too, but he couldn't place his finger on how. All he knew was if Naruto got any closer, Gaara wouldn't have stood a chance.

Then, the boy's friends jumped in and stopped him, telling him the girl he'd confined in his sand was safe. Only then did Naruto stop. Only then did that look of _"I'm going to stop you if it means killing you"_ fade, and he slumped to the ground in exhaustion. He _stopped_ , when Gaara was on the ground, bleeding, vulnerable to attack, and unmoving.

Gaara's eye twitched. 

Thinking about the boy's actions gave him more of a headache than warding off his tailed beast.

Though, Gaara had been particularly hooked onto the feeling of being _hurt_. That Uchiha boy was the first taste he'd gotten, yes, but Uzumaki did far more damage than him. It was clear to him that his body didn't enjoy it, and was rejecting the feeling adamantly. However, some morbid part of his brain was curious, now, as to how much _hurt_ he could take. 

Gaara sat up silently, tracing the tip of the kunai along the palm of his hand. The sound of metal against sandstone was all too familiar to him. Trying to dig the blade into his palm was just as unavailing; the sand pushed back against the blade, coiling and rolling and hissing in rejection. This wasn't the first time he'd tried, and it wouldn't be the last. In frustration, he narrowed his gaze and pulled the blade back, jabbing as quickly as he could. The effort was futile, the sand stopping the blade yet again, grains spattering across his bedsheets. Setting the knife down, he took a deep breath. Gaara was determined to make this happen. He needed to feel it again. He needed to understand what exactly he'd put other people through without _thinking twice._

Pulling his sleeve back, he scratched at the skin gently. That area didn't have sand armor yet. Maybe if he went slowly? Tricked it into thinking he wasn't intending to harm himself?

It was worth a try. Grabbing the kunai, he lightly traced it across his skin. He _felt_ the blade. _Gaara felt the blade._ His breathing picked up as the sand didn't react to his ambitions.

Gaara swallowed and pulled it back for a moment. A mixture of excitement and dread settled in his chest. Letting out a shuddering breath, he shifted the blade back to his pale, eagerly anticipating skin, staring down intensely at his weapon. Something in the back of his mind told him not to press down and made him hesitate. But, like other emotions, it was easy for him to defeat, as he slowly pushed the tip of the blade down, and swiped.

Fire lit on his skin, making him drop the blade and grab his wrist, gritting his teeth and growling. Yeah, no, his body didn't like it at all. He gawked, arm shaking, as blood began to drip from the wound, blending in with his maroon bedsheet. He took a deep breath, trying his best to calm the alarms blaring in his head.

Gaara was torn between his feelings. On one hand, _holy fuck,_ did that hurt. Even if the kunai was razor-sharp and sliced through with ease, ghosting through his flesh and barely leaving a reaction, his pain tolerance was incredibly low. _He'd never felt pain like this._

On the other hand, that was the point. 

Watching as the blood slipped down his skin to meet the tiny puddle slowly forming, his morbid curiosity only continued to develop. That was his blood. _His own lifeforce._ That blood was keeping him alive, keeping him walking, keeping him thinking, keeping him watching. It looked beautiful to him, like precious honey glistening in the sunlight. _That's_ what he drained from people; that beautiful red liquid that made existence possible.

He wanted more. Gaara wanted to see more of his blood, understand _hurt_ even better. A small smile drew at his lips. He lowered the blade again.

\---~~----

Mornings suck fat ass, Kankurou decided, as he begrudgingly tried his hardest to blink himself awake.

In the desert, morning time was one of two things. Freezing fucking cold, or hot enough to melt you into the floor. Today, it was the latter, and Kankurou felt like he was dying upon waking up. The heat was enough to give him a headache so he threw off his covers as quickly as possible, wasting no time in slipping into his usual puppet master garments so he can get a glass of water. He'll put on his face paint when he's less tired and likely to get it absolutely goddamn everywhere (which his sister gave him quite a talking-to about last time).

Kankurou stepped out of his siblings' shared room--which was now empty, he wakes up later than Temari and Gaara--and made his way up into the kitchen, where his family was already eating. 

Grabbing a glass, filling it up, and rubbing his eyes, he watched the two at the table. Temari looked to be off in her own world, staring at her plate with a look that spanned for miles. She chewed slowly and thoughtfully. Gaara, on the other hand, actually looked... Somewhat tense. He didn't show practically any emotion, to begin with, but Kankurou swore he saw something other than just his usual blank, intensive look.

He couldn't quite tell what it was, but he knew it wasn't typical.

Kankurou hummed to himself. That could be dangerous, he determined, as he turned his line of sight away from Gaara. Though he'd started to show _some_ evidence of having human feelings after his battle with Naruto, he still didn't trust the sand-demon in the least. If he wanted to keep his bones intact, he had to be careful and to step around the glass Gaara had placed down for him. After all, _Shukaku was still there. That appetite for blood couldn't have faded so quickly._

Cracking his neck and chugging the rest of his water, he skipped breakfast and headed directly to his workshop. Crow still needed his poison restocked and his joints oiled after that clash with bug-boy. Though he didn't create the puppet himself, he was his most priceless possession, and he needed proper care.

\---~~~~--

Gaara planned to cut himself again that day, being unable to bide his patience any longer.

Time seemed to crawl at its slowest while he waited for a good time to sneak off and execute his personal plans. He was particularly thankful that Temari wasn't being conversational and observant today because otherwise, she could've read Gaara's choppy speech like an open book. In fact, it seemed as if she were completely lost in thought about god knows what. 

But, when Gaara got his chance, he'd grabbed the same kunai as before, swapped wrists, and pulled back his right sleeve. This time around, he feared the pain a bit less. 

Waiting for the sand to give him an opening to slit into, he abated his breath. Then, feeling the cold, hungry metal settle up against his skin, he pressed and slid.

That same burn erupted again, willing him to flinch, but this time, he decided he'd revel in the feeling instead. Gaara knew the pain would not only stop eventually but would only help him in his pursuits to understand others' pain. His breath shook and butterflies flapped against his gut as more of his blood once again dropped to his bedsheets. His lifeforce. His _ichor._ Gaara felt a shiver rack up his spine as he positioned the kunai again, to get his fourth cut.

As his flesh opened again, he let a hiss slip out. Laying the kunai down and deciding that was enough for today, he gave his quivering arm a small satisfied _smile_. Although Shukaku stirred in his mind and demanded he stopped, he paid absolutely no mind, tracing his tongue across one of the cuts and savoring it.

_'It tastes like iron.'_

Gaara sat for a moment, blissed-out, before grabbing a roll of white bandages he'd never expected he'd use.

He'd take a break for a day, but after that, he'd add five more. Nine marks to honor the boy who opened his mind to this new feeling. It simply felt like the proper number.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a vent fic, dw ^w^


End file.
